When I was alone at the edge of the worldI listened to the cries of birds sailing out far beyond the rim.I gazed at the stars implanted in their strange geometries,Out of reach.

Now I have listened to the songs of scientists,Playing their lines and graphs like lute-strings,Making good guesses with strange methods,Phrasing their questions in terms my dreaming eyes would never have conceived.

Then again the old mystery swamps me;Amid the wreckage of torn charts and battered sails,All destinations suspended,What I cannot disbelieve yet turns to mist before my eyes.

Not a pity, not a prayer,Not a regret, not a sigh,Not a hope,Not a request for intercession,Not a plea for benediction,Not a memory,Not a response,Not an accident,Not a prodigy,Not this, not that,Then what?Just a sterilized brainJust a scalded tongueJust a numb fingertipJust an arrow in flightJust an empty jugJust a chair without a backrestJust a car without nostrilsJust a girlfriend without bitternessJust an ocean without deadJust a butterfly floating over the edge of the cliff.

Whoa, Earth, I want to dismount,Said the Buddhaand got off,Letting the orb resume its spinning,Humanity continue sinning,Now he's standing there in spaceAn azure smile upon his faceWhich is to sayWithout a trace.

Spring is a sure thing now, and winter's in a panic, pulling out all the stops like a cop hoping for a suspect, whipping up a river of air that buffets everything and sprays chilly droplets against the windows like buckshot.Over this rough conduct preside impassive clouds whose gray faces do not even pass judgment.The sun like a friendly accomplice trying to lend a hand probes with slender knives but can't even slip an edge of daylight through the stuck casement of dawn.The woods struggle on in the gloom trying to pull off the job.Individual trees are only as sure of staying in their place as their trunks and roots are firm.They cross their branches and hope for the best.

Easy to lose your foothold in this world, and never get it back.So when we hear strong winds blow and big branches creaking,It sets us to thinking.

A wind can fell a human as easy as a tree.A person's roots aren't so deep.And like a tree, when a person goes down for real,We others can't help them up.

Do trees mourn fallen brethren who go down with a crash?Do they think, "There go I when the next wind blows," or "Life is short, make sugar now?"

Probably not, and still,sap is flowing,and after the difficult wind,Spring comes for every one still standing.

Well it's another perfect day in the neighborhood With perfect people everywhere Painting picket fences and makin' double lattes, Workin' for the CIA.

There's not a whole lotta places a guy can go To find employment and security. The whole private sector is just a show, A cover for the CIA.

We come in all shapes and sizes Don't you know, Mohamedan, Christian and Jew, Buddhist and Taoist even some of us Believe in Sai Baba, too But under the skin We're all blacker than sin Workin' for the CIA.

Yeah the money's good here And it spends real fine Printed by the CIA, And there's plenty of jobs in interrogation Workin' for the CIA, Ya get to know your neighbors, Ya get to know the truth About a whole lot of things We know about you, Yeah there's a whole lotta perks With a company spot, Workin' for the CIA.

See that guy over there In the cycle shop, And that bum smokin' crack at the old bus stop, That postal employee cleanin' out the box, All workin' for the CIA.

It's just another perfect day In the neighborhood, Developed by the CIA. And if you're not plugged in It might not be so good, I mean with the CIA. So we'll be by again and see just what you think, And remember it's just CIA. CIA.

Another election? A fait acomplit ...You could vote for that other guy,Yeah, if you wanna die.And you know you won’t Know you won’tKnow you won’tKnow you won’tStand aloneYou can’t stand alone, baby, need a man beside you.

You keep on hopin’ I’ll remember somedayAnd I’ll lead you on,Yes on and on and on,

The bankers are my friends, But ain’t I good to you?Didn’t send you to Guantanamo,Didn’t beat you black and blue,

You think you are different?That you’ll “occupy”But you just sat in your tentTryin’ to avoid the rent.Couldn’t come up with no demands,Playin’ your little anarchist games,Hate to tell you baby,You’re all pretty lame,And some day you’ll seeDay you’ll seeDay you’ll seeDay you’ll see,You just got played,Played by me, yeah, I was the playerPlayed by me,Yeah baby you just got played,Played by me.

It all happened right here, in me. The whole thing everything right here peter frampton was right i'm in you You're in me probably not how he meant it but anyway saw him once at the Ventura County Fair by the beach poor bastard me, I mean stuck in a motel with wife and daughter the daughter and I decided to see the show Actually, he was pretty good And then I remembered He was the guitarist in Humble Pie Who fried my brain At the celebrity theatre on a full hit of orange sunshine Came on after Loggins & Messina had me all blissed out and electrocuted my ass Goddamn singer talking cockney smack about a run-in with a London whore Uuuuuuugghh Dragged my mind through the fuck'n gutter Then ground me through a brutal version of I don't need no doctor Killer tune Killed me about a dozen times Then, when I was dead, Turned me into a zombie With everyone else And moshed us psychically with his fuzztone Including the bit where the bass player goes real quiet Then cranks it up to eleven So the whole floor falls out from under you and everyone else And the whole room has an orgasm sorta except for me cause I'm a zombie and I know it unlike the rest of them and zombies don't come